dignity schmignity.

Pregnancy is a wonderful thing that strips you of the final dignity that you still cling to. It’s actually liberating in a way, this time around, that I’ve been through everything before and just care so much less. I had a late night trip to the Emergency Department again on Saturday, this time because I woke up in a puddle and panicked that my water had broken 4 months early or that I was leaking something that I was not supposed to be leaking. So, of course, the doctors go through the usual song-and-dance of checking her heartbeat (all fine), checking her amniotic fluid levels on the ultrasound (all fine) and the lovely internal examination with my favourite friend, the speculum. If you’re a man, or just a woman that’s never had a pap smear, imagine that this tool is like a car-jack for your lady parts. It even makes the horrible wrenching noise as it goes. All this used to bother me until I had a person come out of me in front of 3 strangers, my mother and my ex, and now I don’t give a crap who sees what. The doctor was very apologetic that she didn’t have much in the way of a “privacy blanket”, but I was just like, who the fuck cares anymore? What am I clinging to by making sure someone doesn’t walk in on a viewing of my cervix? Everyone has one. If you don’t, then I’m sure you have a foreskin or at least some semblage of a penis and really, who cares about that either?

I am loving the freedom that pregnancy and just motherhood in general seems to open the door to, though. I tell people what I really think instead of being shy. You can’t be a wallflower when some dickhead’s kid is kicking yours in the head at the playground (yes, this has happened) or the Ruski cleaning lady is taking four hours to clean the toddler toilet at the mall and your kid is busting to go (also, yes, this has happened.) I also used to take ages to get ready just to go buy some milk. Now I don’t even care if I’m wearing pjs and haven’t done my hair. I’m pregnant, get out of my way or I’ll Hindenberg on your ass. I’m aware that I have to have some limits or I’ll become the lady who washes herself with a rag on a stick, but really, Blackburn Square is bullshit and full of old ladies and I doubt I’m going to meet anyone I know there, much less anybody I want to impress. And if someone wants to be a dick to me because I’m wearing my ugly Purple Rain t-shirt or my trackpants that have oil paint on them, that really says more about them than it does about me.